In Search of the Perfect Pint

Until I married a man by the name of John Linehan Fogarty, I had no idea that the Irish don’t go in much for St. Patrick’s Day. I discovered this last year when I offered to cook corned beef and cabbage to celebrate, a suggestion that went over like a sack of potatoes. John was, however, gamely open to watching The Departed and enjoying a couple of pints of Guinness.

It had been a while since either of us had had a Guinness, and I was surprised at how light it tasted despite the common American misconception that it’s a heavy stout. (Most Irish stout, a dark-style beer brewed with roasted barley, is, in fact, classified as light in body although dark in color.)

I was even more surprised several days later when, while driving up La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles, I saw a billboard boasting that 12 ounces of Guinness has only 125 calories, which is fewer than the average American beer. While I’m not suggesting that this constitutes a health beverage, it certainly makes Guinness a little more attractive to the waistline.

And so the following week at Tom Bergin’s, an Irish pub in L.A., I ordered another Guinness, and my husband, as anyone with even a drop of Irish blood is apt to do, remarked that Guinness doesn’t taste the same outside of Ireland. Several months later, a co-worker by the name of Hugh Daniel Patrick Garvey (enough said) returned from a family vacation in Ireland and reiterated the point: “It just tastes better over there.” Does it really? I had to find out for myself. So I booked a flight to Dublin.

Stepping off the plane, I met the first of what would be many Guinness Adorers—which is what aficionados of the stout are called.

“What is your business?” the customs officer asked. “I’m here to write a story on Guinness,” I replied. His scowl turned to excitement as he launched into a story about his grandmother’s physician prescribing her a bottle a day in the early 1900s for its iron content. “That’s where ‘Guinness Is Good for You’ comes from,” he said, referring to the stout’s original 1920s slogan.

“But you have to watch out,” he added solemnly. “The first 14 or 15 pints are no problem. It’s the 16th and 17th pints that’ll get you into trouble.”

On the drive to the hotel, my cab driver was pointing out the best pubs for a pint, a subject he seemed particularly passionate about. Here was another Adorer, so I put it to him about the brew’s medicinal benefits.

According to this particular Dublin cabbie, at the turn of the last century, women were prescribed Guinness not only for its iron content but also to aid in breast-feeding, a piece of lore I later confirmed with tour guide Deirdre Gaffney at the Guinness Storehouse. In retrospect, however, Gaffney said, it seems more likely that the primary medicinal property of the beer was that during the early 1900s, it was probably safer to drink than the untreated local water.

After a power nap at the hotel, I set out to the Guinness Storehouse to meet with local celebrity and Master Brewer Fergal Murray. “People get emotional about Guinness. Everyone has a story, where the best pint was,” Murray said. “That’s why we’ve been around for 250 years. It’s not just about the liquid; it’s an experience.”

And the experience is what Murray strives to protect. For instance, there are six steps to “pulling” the perfect pint, and Guinness trains bartenders on these points, not only across Ireland but globally. I was no exception; I soon found myself behind the bar learning the technique.

First, I was to take a clean, 20-ounce pint glass. Second, I was to hold it at a 45-degree angle under the tap, never allowing the spout to touch the glass. Third, I was to pour the glass three-quarters full “in a confident way,” Murray stressed. That is, I had to be able to keep eye contact with the customer on the other side of the bar without looking down at the pint. Easier said than done, I learned, as I had to dump my first pint and start again.

The fourth step was to place the pint on the bar for two minutes, watching the bubbles settle and surge while the head began to settle. Fifth was the top-off, best achieved by pushing the lever away from you (toward the customer) so that less gas is released with the head, creating a domed effect. Sixth, present to customer. After several tries, I got the hang of it (sort of).

But then came my real education. “The visual impact of the perfectly poured pint is just the first step in appreciation,” Murray said. Many first-time Guinness drinkers are turned off by a bitter taste when in fact they are tasting just the head. The way you hold a pint has everything to do with what you will taste. Murray instructed me to take my glass and never look down at the top of it.

“Always look to the horizon,” he said. Then I was to tilt the glass to my lips while holding my elbow up, never bringing my head down to the glass. This technique allows you to drink “under the head,” so you’re getting the rich, brown liquid beneath and tasting the balance of the malt’s sweetness on the front of your tongue, the roasted barley on the side of your tongue, and the bitterness toward the back. (Disclosure: You will be left with a Guinness mustache.)

Finally, you’ll always want to drink from the same spot on your glass, and ideally you will see a fully “laced” glass (the creamy head clinging to the side of the glass). If you’re a real pro, you’ll see a number of rings coating the inside of the glass for each sip you take, the optimal number being seven to eight sips. Finish by drinking the cream at the end to wipe your taste buds clean.

To put Murray’s method to the test, I dropped in on a number of pubs he’d recommended (which matched up with those my cabbie had suggested). The first was Ireland’s oldest pub, The Brazen Head, and I watched with disappointment as the bartender distractedly pulled a pint and let it sit a minute before shoving it toward me. It tasted fresh enough, but no creamy coating, no rings. I had better luck at the dimly lit McDaid’s and the convivially crowded Kehoe’s—though, sadly, still no rings.

The next afternoon at four o’clock, I had the superlative pint at Doheny & Nesbitt. Here, the pint was perfectly poured according to Murray’s standards, and I felt as though my drinking technique had been finely honed. Okay—I left nine rings instead of the preferred seven, but it tasted beautifully fresh. It was an unforgettable pint.

On the way back to the airport several days and many pints later, my cab driver, Eddie, said it was impossible to claim that one pub poured a better pint than another. It’s all about the person behind the bar, he said.

Eddie, it turned out, had been a bartender at a private gentleman’s club in Dublin for years before becoming a cabbie, and he was encyclopedically well-versed in pouring technique as well as the technical stuff—like how and when to clean the lines. According to Eddie, “there are no bad pints of Guinness, only better ones.” As we pulled up to the curb, he added, “But as my father always said, ‘All you need to know is, it’s black, it’s wet. Drink it.’”

Back at home, I was craving a Guinness, so John and I went to our favorite neighborhood gastropub, The Village Idiot, and ordered some fish and chips and a couple of pints. We watched as Dana, a young, personable bartender, pulled a near-perfect pint—her single flaw being that she allowed it to settle for only a minute and a half instead of two. We tasted and watched as rings formed around our pint glasses.